


The Nymphs Are Departed

by plastic_swinebones_and_lead207



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Asexual Sasha James, Body Horror, Body Modification, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Elias is elias. ie terrible, F/M, Michael the distortion is also terrible. but not as terrible as elias, More tags to be added as I progress, Multi, Sasha James Lives, Sharing a Bed, also: the Jonelias is only implied, but it's important to me, in which jon and sasha are philosophy majors, of the supernatural variety, one can just interpret it as elias being just creepy, that's not that important to the fic, well I think it'll be mild body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29947950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastic_swinebones_and_lead207/pseuds/plastic_swinebones_and_lead207
Summary: Jonathan Sims is in his first year of university, getting a major in philosophy. As the first term draws to its close he disappeares; stolen by the Fae to be the Archivist for The Watching King. His friends try to uncover the mystery of his vanishing as Jon himself must try to escape and keep his identity intact.Or: another fae au. what did you expect.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (implied & onesided), Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Melanie King, Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36





	1. Introduction. In Which: Some of the main actors are introduced

The early december air is cold and harsh. Jon pulls his dark gray coat tighter around him. Up above the full moon shines, softening the light. No snow yet, but that's only a matter of time. He's headed home to his grandmother. The two of them live at the outskirts of town. It's a long walk to and from the university, but he enjoys it. God knows he needs the exercise. The streets are silent, lit by the yellow glow of streetlamps. He's nearly home. Ahead a man walks towards him.

“Good evening!” the man greets as he gets closer.

“Good evening,” Jon responds. The man tilts his head , considering.

“Say, we're neighbours, right? I've seen you around here before.” Jon pauses, then nods. The man, with his slicked back hair and light grey overcoat, is familiar, though Jon can't say from where.

“Uh, yeah, think so.” The man nods again and extends his hand for a handshake. Jon clasps his gloved hand.

“Elias Bouchard,” the man, Bouchard, says.

“I'm Jon. Jonathan Sims.” Bouchard's eyes are steely grey, and their gaze seem to pierce right through Jon. Then the moment passes and he lets go of Jon's hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, Jon. We'll see each other sometime soon, I'm sure.” His smile is friendly and wide.

“Uh, yeah, probably.” Jon's smile and tone feel incredibly stilted. Bouchard nods his head once, then continues past Jon, who continues homeward. He's got an essay to write.

“Behold!” says Sasha “A man!” In her hand she holds a chicken plucked from the grocery aisle. Jon rolls his eyes.

“Morphology based phylogeny is _so_ last millenium, Sasha. Try to keep up,” he says. She sticks her toungue out at him. Martin and Tim share what could be called 'a look.' The four of them are shopping for snacks at the Tesco, in preparation for studying. Sasha walks away to put the chicken back with a pout.

“No-one here appreciates my humour,” she says upon returning, shaking her head.

“Hard to appreciate what doesn't exist,” Jon snarks back, to which Sasha glares.

“Okay, so snacks. What do we want?” Tim says, getting them back on purpose as they move toward the snacks section of the store.

“A restful sleep?” Jon suggests.

“A general sense of purpose?” adds Sasha.

“Caramelized onion crisps, maybe?” Martin says.

“Good suggestion, Martin. Unlike these two.” Tim turns to glare at Jon and Sasha, who smile back at him.

“Other suggestions for crisp flavours? Oh, and Sasha, you're banned after the beef and horseradish incident” he continues.

“They were good crisps, Tim!” she replies.

“They really weren't. Salt and Vinegar maybe?” Jon says.

“I can really see why Melanie King hates your guts,” Sasha tells him.

“Took you that long to figure it out?” he shoots back. Jon has a tendency to snark. One can imagine how popular that has made him over the years.

The four of them head to Jon's home, crisps, soda, and toffees acquired. Their breaths mist in the cool air. On the way, Sasha, wearing her green wool coat, points out that in chemistry a soda is a compound containing sodium and thus alkaline, whilst soft drinks are acidic.

“That's going to bug me forever now that you've pointed it out,” Jon says. In the air, snowflakes dance, though they melt upon touching the ground.

“Welcome to the club! It's been bugging me for years,” she responds.

“That's kind of facinating, actually, how the meaning has shifted,” Tim muses. Sasha shoots back an 'Okay, nerd.' Martin smiles.

“Says the philosophy major,” he snarks. Sasha chuckles.

“Hello Jon!” Bouchard greets from where he walks across the street. He smiles. Jon waves at him with a short 'Hi.' Bouchard smiles and walks away.

“Who's that?” Sasha asks.

“Oh, it's a neighbour. Elias Bouchard,” Jon replies.

“Huh. Anyway, I found a really interesting book the other day,” Sasha says.

“Oh, what is it called?” Martin asks. Sasha tells them about the book, Annhialation that came out the year before, about a group of researchers entering a mysterious 'Area X' as they reach Jon's home.

***

“Hey,” Sasha says, standing in the doorway. She's wearing a dark purple pinafore dress over a white polo shirt, her dreadlocks gathered into a large bun at the lower back of her head.

“Hey,” Jon responds, looking up from his computer. He's trying to motivate himself to study for his paper, but is instead reading about parisian green.

“You doing ok?” Sasha asks, taking the seat opposite him.

“Yeah, it's better. Just...” he trails off. They're at the university in one of the small study rooms. The walls are plain, but there's a window in one of them, overlooking a lawn. Sasha nods.

“I get it. I've had some struggles too.” She looks down at her hands.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Jon says.

“I've been reading Camus recently. Sisyphus.” She pulls out her sketchbook from her bag.

“The absurd. Think it'll help?” Jon runs his hand through the curls of his hair. He has the same curly hair and dark skin as his mother, though Sasha's skin is darker than his.

“Maybe. I don't know, really. But Jon, you know that you can always reach out to me. I care about you, we all do.”

“Thank you, Sasha.” She smiles softly at him.

“Don't mention it.” They sit in silence for a while, Sasha sketching away and Jon moving on from parisian green to instead read about prussian blue.

“I finished watching Evangelion, by the way. Haven't watched the movie yet, though,” Jon says after a while.

“Nice! Thoughts on the last episodes?” Jon pauses and considers his words.

“I liked it. It's kinda bittersweet and hopeful, and the questions about what makes an individual an individual are really compelling.” Jon closes his laptop, giving up on studying for now.

“Yeah, it's kind of hegelian,” Sasha says.

“Right, yeah,” he nods, “I actually prefer Hegel's idea of the self to Descartes.”

“Oh, definetly. Descartes was all too centered on the one person, but we are much more defined by that which surrounds us. Lunch?” She rises from her seat, picking up her coat.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Jon packs his bag and follows her.

***

“Oh, Jonathan, good day!” Elias greets, meeting Jon on the path.

“Greetings, Mr Bouchard,” Jon responds. He has run into Elias a couple of times during the previous weeks.

“I told you to call me Elias.” He smiles at him.

“Uh, greetings, Elias,” he says, amending his greeting. Elias chuckles softly. He's polite and genial and Jon has started to halfway trust him. He wouldn't call him a friend, sure, but it's an acquaintance.

“So where are you headed?” Elias asks him.

“Oh, I'm going to meet with some friends for ice cream.” It's Martin's nineteenth birthday and the four are going to meet up at an ice cream café.

“Ice cream? In December?”

“It wasn't my idea,” Jon defends. “Anyway, where are you headed?” he continues.

“The forest actually. I'm quite fond of taking walks. Well, I'll see you some other time.” Elias smiles and begins walking past Jon, who waves at him. It's rather nice, he finds, to speak to someone outside of school and home. Maybe that's how adults make acquaintances. Though Jon doesn't think he and Elias have much in common to talk about. What do adults even talk about? Mortages? Stocks? Jon's not certain. Nevertheless, Elias did listen to him ramble about the use of arsenic in green pigments during the 18th century for ten minutes, which should count for something. Jon shakes his head and continues on his way.

***

“Spiders are evil, Martin,” Jon says.

“No they aren't. They are an integral part of the ecosystem and extremely useful,” Martin rebuffs. Him, Jon, Sasha, and Tim are seated inside at one of the ice cream cafe's rickety tables and Jon, having already taught his friends about emulsifiers is now arguing with Martin about spiders.

“They're evil,” he says, repeating himself for the third time.

“No, they aren't. Have you read Charlotte's Web? You should” Jon has not read that book, though he's heard about it.

“Last time I read a children's book about a spider I nearly died, so I'm not doing that again,” he tells him.

“Okay, we are not touching that can of worms with a ten foot pole. Moving on, how's school going for everyone?” Tim says, interrupting the two of them. He's met with a general sense of it going well enough. Their conversation drifts then, touching on the languages they speak (Martin speaks Polish, Tim Vietnamese, Sasha Gikuyu and Welsh, and Jon Tamil as well as a bit of Sanskrit.)

“I've been meaning to learn Irish Gaelic as well,” Jon says. His father was Irish, though he moved to England before Jon was born. Sasha laments that her Welsh has been getting rusty as of late.

“Same here. I barely speak Tamil to people, it's just me,” Jon adds. The conversation drifts further on, Sasha telling them about various deep sea fish until hours have passed and it's getting dark outside. They each head their way home then, after wishing Martin a happy birthday a final time.

***

15:43 **Sasha** : Hey, are you doing okay?

Jon stares at the textmessage before sending a reply.

 **Jon** : Yeah, I'll be fine. Going for a walk in the forest

 **Jon** : Thank you for checking in

 **Sasha** : Don't mention it. Talk to you later, okay?

 **Sasha** : <3

 **Jon** : Sure, yeah.

 **Jon** : <3

Jon looks at the heart Sasha sent him. It means a lot to him. She cares. They had a test earlier today and he thinks he might have failed it. He's having an off day, he supposes. Stress and all that. He knows that it's an overreaction, but that knowledge doesn't help very much now, does it? So he's going for a walk in the woods near his home. The dirt path is solid beneath his feet, frozen. A thin layer of snow covers the forest floor. The sun is fading fast, though its only 4 pm. It sets so early in the winter. He has his purple wool scarf wrapped around his neck and his leather school bag slung over his shoulder.

“Oh, hello, Jon!” Jon recognizes Elias voice immediately and turns around to see him ten meters behind.

“Hi Elias!” Jon waits for him to catch up.

“Fancy meeting you here. Mind if we walk together?” Elias asks when he gets closer. Jon does not mind. They walk beside each other, a half meter between. Elias hands are in his pockets, mirroring Jon.

“Are you doing okay? You look tired,” Elias says after a while.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just had a test and I don't think it went that well” Elias nods.

“Well, you can always retake it can't you? Though it probably went better than you think.” Elias's tone is kind and comforting.

“Yeah,” Jon replies. They walk in silence for a while, Elias humming a song that is familiar to Jon though he doesn't recognize it.

“I read quite an interesting article a while back,” Elias says after a rough quarter of an hour.

“Oh, what was it about?”

“Robert Smirke. He was an architect from the 19th century, quite influential.” Jon has heard of him, though not that much. He says as much and Elias happily tells him about Smirke's architecture and influence. Apparently he was also an occultist, outlining theories about the supernatural. The sun has begun setting now.

“I should probably head back home,” Jon says.

“Oh, should you now?” Elias's smile and tone is full of icy malice. Jon runs. Stupid idiot Jon, he's going to get murdered or worse, not even eighteen yet. He doesn't make it five meters before Elias grabs him by the shoulder. His grip is strong, much stronger than should be natural. Jon's heart beats like a rabbit on cocaine as he struggles to escape Elias's hold. It does not seem to even faze Elias as he turns Jonathan around towards him. And as Jonathan kicks at him Elias is transformed. He's taller, his hair is longer, he's got extra eyes beside his normal ones. His clothes change too, a grey overcoat and suit transformed into flowing robes with embroidered eyes. On his head rests a crown, silver grey with small emeralds adorning it. He was slightly taller than Jon before, but now he towers more than seven feet tall. Effortlessly, he lifts Jon off the ground. Jon tries to kick at him, but he has no leverage. He screams for help instead.

"There's no-one around to hear you Jonathan," Elias taunts. Jon spits him in the face. Elias smiles at that and in a flash of green the spit vanishes.

"What the hell are you?" Jon asks.

"I am a lord of the Fae, titled the Watching King, Jonathan Sims. My apologies for the deception, but I need an Archivist. You'll do quite nicely.” An archivist? Jon's a philosophy major, not a library science one. Before he can point it out Elias raises his hand to Jon's face and taps him lightly on the forehead. Sleep engulfs him.

***

16:52 **Sasha:** You doing better?

17:17 **Sasha:** Hello?

 **Sasha:** Please respond


	2. Of Homes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jonathan finds himself in a foreign place, and Sasha investigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: kidnapping and threats of violence

Sasha stares at her phone screen, trying to calm herself down. Jon's fine, he's probably just stressed or trying to figure out what to write, or forgot to respond, or maybe his phone is on silent or dead, but Sasha can't shake the worry that he's done something. He's fine, she tells herself, he's doing better and if there were a problem he'd reach out. The clock on the wall ticks forward. It's an analogue one, even though Sasha has trouble reading those. But it was a gift, and she's fond of it.

After what feels like ages of silence Sasha dials Jon's number. The phone beeps and beeps, the clock ticking ever onwards. _Come on, pick up._ It goes to voicemail instead.

“Hello, you've reached Jonathan Si-i-i░░░░░░░I'm not hellhellhell░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ taketaaaa▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓veleavelea▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒░░░░░backba██ █████████▓▓▓▓▓▓▒▒▒▒▒▒░░░aftaftafteer Jonat██████▓▓▒▒░░░███████ leavehell▒▒▓▓▓▓▒▒▒▒ hell████takeyoutakeyoutake███” Her phone shrieks and wails like a mandrake before it dies. Her ears hurt.

If Sasha was worried before, now she's absolutely terrified. That staticky garbled mess was not natural by any stretch of the imagination. Something's wrong. Deep breaths, in … out … in … out. She connects her phone to the charger. After a couple of seconds the screen blinks to life.

17:34 **Sasha:** Have you heard from Jon?

 **Tim:** no, why?

 **Sasha:** He's not answering his phone

 **Tim:** it might be dead?

 **Tim:** the phone i mean

 **Sasha:** I'm going to check on him

She doesn't tell Tim about how garbled the voicemessage was. It probably wouldn't help. She picks up her phone and charger, grabs her jacket, beret, and shoes and heads out the door. She descends the flight of stairs in a rush and heads outside. Jon lives relatively close to her place. She tries to tell herself that she's overreacting. Jon's phone is probably dead or on silent (Jon never has his phone on silent and always keeps it charged. And even if that were the case, it doesn't explain the garbeled voicemail.) Maybe there was just a problem when he recorded the message and he hasn't noticed. When she knocks on his door, out of breath, she's half convinced that he'll answer it and then she'll hug him and it'll be fine.

It's Jon's grandmother, Maeve, who opens the door.

“Oh, hi Sasha. What is it?” Mave's hair is long and grey. She's wearing a navy cardigan over a long greyblue dress. Over her shoulder a scarf is slung, dusty green.

“Is Jon home? Have you seen him?” Sasha asks.

“No,” Maeve pauses. “Why?” Sasha sighs.

“He isn't answering his phone. And the voicemail was all garbled,” she wrings her hands, “I'm worried that something's happened.” Maeve lets out a small 'oh' and invites her in.

Sasha sits crosslegged on the couch. It's an old stiff and faded thing, with a yellow brocade that must once have been vibrant but is now just sad.

“You said his voicemail was garbled?” Maeve asks her.

“Yeah, you know the the 'Hello this is blank yada yada?' It started out like normal but then it started distorting like crazy. I don't think it was natural.” Maeve nods, then picks up the landline and dials a number, presumably Jon's. Sasha and her wait in silence, the grandfather's clock ticking slowly forward. Maeve's frown deepens. She's gotten to the voicemail then. Then the phone screams and wails. Sasha can hear it clearly from where she sits.

“Well, that was… decidedly not natural,” Maeve says when it's quieted.

***

Jon wakes slowly. He's lying on a bed, still in his day clothes, and the light is dim. The ceiling is unfamiliar. What the hell happened?

“Ah, you're awake.” Jonathan turns toward Elias' voice. The man sits in a wooden chair at his bedside, a leather bound book in his lap. His golden crown is tall and bulky, with gold leaves carved. His cape and clothes would not be out of place in a royal portrait. All at once, the previous day's event come crashing back to Jon, along with various half-remembered fairytales about why you don't give your name to strangers. He leaps off the bed, away from Elias.

“Why? Why did you kidnap me? Let me go home,” he asks, trying to stop his voice from breaking. Elias barks a laugh, all six of his eyes glinting.

“I already told you dear,” he chides, “I need an Archivist and you're perfect for it. As for your home, this is your home now, and will forever be” The icy terror in Jon's stomach spreads with that last statement.

“I'm a philosophy major, not library science,” Jon protests, trying to distract himself from the greater issue. Elias laughs again.

“Oh that's not a problem. You'll do great. Now,” Elias rises from his chair and crosses the room towards Jonathan, “I would like to show you around. Your work area, living quarters and similar. You have a lot to see.” He holds out his hand for Jonathan.

“And if I refuse?” Jon asks.

“Then I'll drag you there myself. Or maybe I'll lock you in a dungeon until you're feeling more cooperative.” He grabs Jonathan's upper left arm.

“Wait.” Jon has an idéa, a far flung one that's probably not going to work. “I know your name too.” He summons every inch of confidence he can muster and begins.

“Elias Bouchard, I command you to release me, to lead me back to my granmother's house within an hour, and to then never approach me again, nor harm me or anyone I know.” He takes a deep breath. Elias laughs and laughs and laughs. His laugh is really starting to grate on Jon's nerves.

“My dear archivist, whilst your attempts at magic are amusing, you are quite mistaken about a lot of things. First, I never actually said that my name was Elias Bouchard. I implied it, yes, but I simply stated a name that was not mine. Second, that is not how magic works. Third, even if that were how magic works, you are too weak. You cannot harm me, by means magic or mundane.” His smile is soft as he pulls Jon to his side so that their arms are linked.

“Now, the tour.”

***

Sasha sits on the floor and stares at the wall opposite her. It's Tuesday, the term has ended, and Jon has been missing for four days now. The police have searched the forest, but found nothing. In her mind she has replayed the week leading up to his disappearence over and over and over for days, trying to see if anything or anyone sticks out. Nothing does. It seems like a normal week, the four of them had gone out for lunch, they'd attended uni and Jon and her had studied at his place. The only thing that could be odd was that neighbour of Jon's. In total she had seen him thrice, the last time two days before Jon disappeared. For just a second she could have sworn he'd stared at her like a biologist stares at an intrigueing fungus under a microscope. Then he smiled and went on his way. At the time she'd thought nothing of it, but now, replaying the week in her head it stuck. It's probably nothing. Nonetheless she takes her laptop and openes the browser. This way she's at least _doing_ something.

The search entry 'elias bouchard' yields nothing. Well, that's not entierly accurate. There's one in America, and there's an episode from a true crime podcast called 'The Horrifying Murder of Elias Bouchard,' about a cold case from the nineties. Sasha sighs and openes a website for finding people in the UK. It is mildly horrifying that you can find someone that easily, but Sasha isn't one to look a gifthorse in the mouth (where does that expression come from?). Once again, no results. Elias Bouchard does not exist. Or maybe he's in witness protection or something. But there was obviously something supernatural that happened to Jon's phone. So Sasha is leaning toward the supernatural explanation, that 'Elias Bouchard' is some sort of supernatural being, and has kidnapped or killed Jon. He'd would probably disagree with her and cite Occam's razor, but he's not here, now is he?

***

The Watching King leads Jon on a dizzying tour. First are Jon's own quarters, consisting of a bedroom with a closet, en-suite bathroom, and a small study. It is furnished in some type of wood, oak Jon guesses. In the study there's a small window overgrown with green. The rest is lit by oil lamps and a small fireplace. Then it's the rest of the ground floor, and the stairs leading down into the archives.

“So, this is where you'll be working,” the Watching King says as he openes the heavy oak door, using a floating light to illuminate it. Inside is an absolute mess. Papers, books, files, and boxes are scattered over the floor, some of the shelves toppled.

“You must pardon the mess. Your predecessor let it get a bit out of hand.” He says, completely genial.

“Did you kidnap them too?” Jon asks. “You know, you'd probably get better results if you, say, actually hired an archivist instead of kidnapping random university students. Just a suggestion.” The Watching King laughs in response, then continues the tour. The palace is enormous. There's ballrooms and great halls and enough golden ornamentation to make Versailles look downright modest in comparison. Outside in the courtyard there's lush green verdancy and various statues.

From the outside, the palace is, frankly, a mess. A blend of the gothic and the neo-classical, with buttresses, gothic spires, columns and gigantic reliefs. Central is the tower. It stands hundreds of meters tall, with glinting marble walls and gold décor. At the very top sits a gigantic green eye, staring out over the surrounding landscape. The entire thing by far the most ostentatious building Jon has ever seen. Jon can't help but stop in awe.

“Magnificent isn't it?” the Watching King comments. His smile is proud and wide, basking in the reflected light of the spires.

“A bit tacky,” Jon says in response. The King laughs again. If Jon never hears that laugh again it will be too soon. The tour continues, through the garden, into the tower proper. The rooms are more of the same neo-classical style mashed up with high and vaulted ceilings, painted to depict various forest scenery. The walls are also painted to form murals, with golden décor. Interspersed are more columns, with intricate ornaments where they meet the ceiling. The Watching King tells Jon about how the architect had suggested doric pillars, but he'd insited on corinthian ones instead, because heavens forbid that something isn't as extravagant as it could be. Jon listens half-heartedly. He's tired and homesick and things have stopped feeling real. It's as if he's dreaming, as if he'll wake up any moment at home, his real home. The feeling crystallises as the Watching King shows him the main dining hall, gilded with the same architecture as the rest, and informs him that he'll be expected to attend dinner every day when the clock strikes eight. It's not the end of the tour of course. There's still more to see.

Eventually, the tour is over. The Watching King accompanies Jon to the door to his quarters.

“You know, despite your attitude I-,” he starts. Jon interrupts him.

“Attitude? Attitude! You fucking kidnapped me, I think I'm allowed some goddamned attitude!” The Watching King sighs in response and clenches his jaw.

“I am a patient being, Archivist. But I will not hesitate to hurt you if I deem it necessary.” He grabs Jon's chin. “Am I being clear?”

“Crystal.” The Wathcing King lets go of him. Jon opens the door to his rooms and steps in.

“Oh, and Archivist?”

“What?” Jon turns to look at him.

“You are forbidden from using your old Name from now on.” With that, the Watching King closes the door, before Jon can protest. He collapses onto the floor, hugs his legs close, and cries.

***

When Jon wakes the next day it's not at home. Still trapped in this nightmare, then. He lies upon the bed, thinking. Grief and anger is all well and good, but Jon needs to escape. He needs to know more of magic and the Faeries, until he can set himself free. His best bet for that are the archives. There must be some knowledge of magic in those tomes, why else would the Watching King keep them? So, he rolls off the bed, washes his face, and heads to the archive, oil lamp in hand. He knows logically that he should eat breakfast, but honestly? Fuck it.

The archive is the same mess as it were yesterday. Jon sighs, clears off a desk, and sets the lamp upon it. He has a vague recollection of a tour of the university library, along with its archive. There'd been a sign on its door prohibiting sources of fire in it. But Jon doesn't see any electrical lights, so oil lamp it is. Maybe he'll set this place on fire when he manages to escape. That's a consideration for later. For now, he lights the other oil lamps in the room. He learned how to operate them from his grandmother. She had an antique one that she used. It had had a clear glass chimney, a bronze collar and a font of intricate green glass. There was a floral pattern, Jon remembers. The ones in the archive are different. Their chimneys are taller, their fonts clear with a carved in eye motif and the collars gilded. Some stood on desks, but most of them are mounted on shelves and walls. Jon sighs and sits down on the floor. He ought read the papers strewn about him, connect their dots and learn, but he just sits. He misseshis grandmother, he misses Martin, he misses Tim, and he misses Sasha. Are they worried about him? Have they noticed he's gone? They must have, he reminds himself. They care, they've all said so. He knows that his gran never wanted to raise another kid, but she cares. He owes it to all of them to get back, to escape this place. And since the way to do that is to learn faerie magic, he'll do it. Slowly, he rises to his feet. He's got an archive to read through.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I hope you enjoy this, please comment if you do! You can find me on tumblr at: https://autumnal-rains.tumblr.com/


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